


the two of us aren't going anywhere

by wombatpop



Series: death and other adventures [2]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Complete, Death, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Melancholy, Nazis, Non-Canon Relationship, Tragedy, World War II, heavy shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombatpop/pseuds/wombatpop
Summary: The Basterds are familiar with his work. Many claim he is an accomplice of theirs. But he is nobody's friend.---bridget von hammersmark playlist





	the two of us aren't going anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> "Man, on the day of his death, falls down before the Angel of Death like a beast before the slaughterer." - Lazar Grünhut

An explosion of gunfire echoes up from the underground tavern. A girl screams, the slick sounds of mangled bodies mixes with the sharp echoes of the ricocheting bullets. Immediately the remaining Basterds spring into action, muscles previously lax flooded with adrenaline. Once at the door of the tavern the Sergeant signals for halt, as the gunfire finally comes to its conclusion. 

-  
Within the tavern, Wilhelm ducks behind the damaged bar, desperately clutching his dead friend’s weapon. The silence that follows is overwhelming. When the bell attached to the tavern entry rings, he jumps, fingers tightening around the trigger. He stills his heaving chest at the sound of a figure slowly descending into the carnage beneath.

-  
The metallic smell of blood wafts up the staircase. Each second ticks past with increasing fervour. Aldo steps carefully, stopping to peek under the ceiling of the tavern. His throat tightens slightly at the sight, bodies and furniture strewn all over the place, and the whole place drenched in gore. Behind him, Donny and Jean follow, the first ready to release the energy that the gunfire had triggered with violence; the second recounting her medical training over and over in her head. Like that will fix everything, like that will bring people back from the dead.

As the trio reach the bottom of the staircase, Aldo steps forward, and sighs. Donny remains on the staircase, blocking Jean's view of the scene. He looks back at her and she knows what has happened before she steps out to the landing; anticipation making her head spin in a way she had not often experienced. When Jean finally is able to survey the tavern herself, her stomach sinks, and she can’t help but shut her eyes, just for a second, just for a moment, just…

Bridget, who had previously stayed silent, makes a guttural grunt, remaining rather quiet for someone with a bullet in their leg. The Sergeant shakes his head slightly, his hands on his hips.  
"Well-"

He is cut off by a spurt of gunfire from behind the bar, badly aimed and desperate. Bridget flattens herself to the floor. Aldo ducks into the corner directly to the left of the staircase. Donny manages to avoid the fire by moving behind the staircase itself. Jean shrinks into the wall but finds no salvation. Her chest and abdomen burst in a searing heat that incapacitates her in seconds.

"Who are you? British, American?"

A blond head peeks up from behind the bar, as Jean falls back to the brick wall behind her. Donny is desperate to go to her, but when he looks to Aldo he gives a sharp movement to stay put. Although Donny’s muscles scream for him to move, he knows if he exits his protected position he will be no better off than she is. So he stays. 

"I am a father. My baby was born today-"

She fumbles to put her hands to her chest, fingers slipping in her own blood, wet and sticky and warm. Her blood is so red she’s not convinced it’s real, oversaturated in a way she finds strangely fascinating. She's distantly aware of the Sergeant and the figure behind the bar conversing, words floating like cigarette smoke. But mostly, it's quiet, like reading a book late at night, like the moment before you go to sleep. 

“What’d’ya say we make a deal?”

The room is so still, bound by a tension that Jean is only vaguely aware of. Her eyes fall on the mutilated corpses of her friends and colleagues, and she feels nothing; a delicious nothing, nerve endings replaced with cotton wool, blood with helium. 

“You go your way, and we’ll go ours, and little Max gets to grow up playing catch with his daddy.”

Would Germans play catch as well? Jean almost laughs. Of course they would. But they’d probably. Probably have a different word. A German word, for catch. A German word.

Her eyelids flutter. Her thoughts are slower now, sludgy; synapses filled with cement, slowly hardening. She can feel her muscles beginning to relax, shoulders slack for the first time since she can remember. Her torso is still unbelievably hot, surely it must be glowing. She never imagined this is what dying would feel like.

Gunshots ring out once more, but it takes a few seconds for Jean to persuade her eyelids to open. Cold and calculated, as you would expect from an effective double agent, Bridget has solved their problem. Jean expects relief, but again, nothing. 

Jean's eyes begin to glass over as Donny's hands finally join hers.  
The pain is debilitating, devastating. He can only imagine how Jean feels. 

They look at each other, and as Jean closes her eyes for the last time, she shares no shred of relief or disappointment. Death follows war so closely, waiting for his chance to strike, the most vulnerable and least deserving his favourite targets. He extends his hand, leaving the burnt memories and deep scars on the hearts of those he orphans, and he shows no regret. The Basterds are familiar with his work. Many claim he is an accomplice of theirs. But he is nobody’s friend. 

 

Jean’s body goes limp. 

 

And Death smiles.


End file.
